


The One with the Russian Dominatrix

by Khirsah



Category: Avengers (Comics), Hawkeye (Comics), Young Avengers
Genre: F/M, Pre-Romance, Romantic Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 16:32:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/599828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khirsah/pseuds/Khirsah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So, impulse control isn’t exactly my thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The One with the Russian Dominatrix

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sheeana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sheeana/gifts).



So, impulse control isn’t exactly my thing. Self-denial? Self-control? Wouldn’t even put them in the top twenty.

Top fifty? Fuck.

Point is, I’m no Captain America. I’m no Falcon, either. Hell, I’m no _Iron Man_ , and the fact that Tony’s better at turning on his heel and _get behind me Sataning_ is pretty damn sobering…if I were the kind of guy who sat still long enough to be sobered.

Except that’s kind of the problem right now, isn’t it?

“Is this a Hydra thing? Masters of Evil? Please tell me Barney didn’t send you.” She’s ignoring me, crouched between my spread thighs, graceful hands sliding over the criss-crossing ropes biting into my skin. They match the ones binding my wrists, twining up my arms and over my chest, looping and twisting in a series of elaborate knots.

I met her in a bar. Isn’t that always the way? I was already halfway to drunk when she slid next to me, long legs crossing, elbow resting against the pitted wood and chin tilted toward me in defiant interest. Her hair and accent reminded me of Natasha. Her eyes reminded me of Janet, her smile of Bobbi. It’s like she was cooked up in a lab specifically to tempt me, and…well. Like I said, it doesn’t take a lot. And too much whiskey can do funny things to a guy. 

“Please tell me you’re not getting me ready for Kang.” She stands, ignoring me, boot heels clicking against dusty floorboards. “Not that I’d put it past him. I mean, just look at him—if there were ever a supervillain two hops away from kinky sex fetish fantasies, it would be…Red Skull, actually, but Kang’s just an _inch_ behind.”

She wraps the excess rope elbow to hand, winding it into a tidy loop. She doesn’t even look at me.

“Or is this Iron Man’s idea of a joke? Don’t answer that—this is _definitely_ Iron Man’s idea of a joke. I’d be laughing a lot more if you hadn’t tied that knot _quite_ so close to my junk. Hey. Hey!” Shit, she’s opening the door. I tense, half expecting a pack of, I dunno, kinky sex ninja spies to come pouring into the room, but all I see is the empty, graffiti-sprawled hallway of the squatter’s paradise she’s brought me to. There’s no one who can hear me scream. She didn’t even have to tell me that movie cliché—I got the picture after fifteen minutes of yodeling like a maniac. I’m on my own here. Literally, it seems, as she steps through the doorway.

She’s just…she’s just going to leave me here. Naked. Alone. Trussed up like a prized hog. Vulnerable in a way that’s got my balls crawling up my body and my heart pounding too hard.

I don’t do vulnerable well.

There’s a lot I could say right now. “Just tell me why,” I settle on, watching the shift of her red hair as she pauses. She reaches into her bag, rummaging in silence before pulling out a phone. Small, dark, space-age in a way that still blows Cap’s mind. I’d recognize the Stark tech anywhere. I don’t even need to see the Hello Kitty sticker Jen stuck on the back to know it’s mine.

The sexy ( _Jesus, Barton, she’s obviously evil; can we stop with the self-destructive douchbaggy drooling_?) redhead flips it open and bends over. I watch as she carefully sets my phone on the floor and presses the very tip of her boot to the faceplate.

Fuck.

I tense up, ready for the _crunch_ , figuring it’s better my phone than any other sensitive piece of…well, equipment…she could be pressing those lethally pointy heels at when she catches my eye. Smirks.

Kicks the open phone toward me.

It zips across the dirty floorboards, clattering against the front-left leg of my chair, but I barely see it. I’m watching as she turns away again, hips swaying, form disappearing into a vertical line of pitched shadow as the door closes firmly behind her.

“Iron Man,” I decide. “It’s gotta be Iron Man.”

**

She took my bow. She took my clothes.

All that’s left is my cellphone. 

Open, full bars, laying at my feet. Blue light cutting through the dim of the otherwise empty room. I’ve got three numbers keyed into speed dial: Cap, Uncle Johnny’s Pizza, and…Katie.

I’ve got to get out of here.

**

God, would someone just come and monologue at me already?

**

Maybe they’re waiting for me to call in backup? Maybe this is all some kind of elaborate naked trap? Maybe Kang really _has_ gone completely around the bend?

Or maybe there are cameras. Are there cameras? Shit, I really need to stop pranking people with too much time, money, and ties to the criminal underworld.

**

Well, hell.

It’s not Tony. Tony would have shown up by now, smirking and saying _That’s for the Hair Club for Men gag last April_. I’m not sure how long it’s been, but my limbs are pretty much numb. Everything’s going to hurt like a bitch when I get out of here.

So. Basically it’s someone who _really_ wants to teach me a lesson. Natasha would just do it herself. Wanda is—not a topic I think about anymore. Tigra’s got bigger fish to fry. Barney would just shoot me.

“Pym,” I figure, twisting, trying to Houdini my way out of here. “Gotta be.”

**

A few more hours in, I’m feeling philosophical from the shoulders up, numb from the pecs down. My wrists are bloody from all the squirming and I’m pretty sure I just lost all the kids I was never going to have.

Pym, I decide, can bite me. I’m still not sure he’s to blame—I actively doubt it is—but I need someone to be pissed at. Funny thing is, dripping blood on the floorboards, phone taunting me, within _easy_ reach if I just could get over myself and call in the cavalry…I realize I wouldn’t blame him, if the universe turned upside down and I found out it was him pulling the strings ( _rope_ ) after all. Because… Well. Because.

Because I’m just so fucking _me_.

**

Shit. Now I’m all mopey.

I’m going to have to make that call.

**

So this… This isn’t what it looks like.

That’s how the line goes, yeah? It’s not what you think. It’s not as bad as all that. I swear, baby, I just slipped and fell into her kinky rope-bondage-trap. (There’s a term for that. I’m pretty sure there’s a term for that. _Something something_ Japanese? Whatever.) It doesn’t _mean_ anything.

Yeah. That’s going to fly.

I shift in the hard chair and try flexing my muscles for the four billionth time, then relaxing. Seeing if I can get some give here. The ropes are good. The knots are better. Hell, I’m pretty sure Cap would be thrilled to take lessons from crazy Whatsherface— _crap, Barton, forgot her name already_?—except for the whole Russian BDSM supervillan thing, and,

“Aw, come on!”

and it’s _just mean_ to tie a knot under a man’s balls like that. I can feel the rope (not-so) lovingly gripping my junk every time I so much as twitch, and okay, it really is time to return to Plan A.

I…really don’t want to go back to Plan A.

The blue light’s faded again, tiny screen gone dark. I’ve _got_ to do this. No way am I getting out of this chair on my own. Not without gnawing off a limb, and _okay_ , I’ve thought about that. I had a whole 127 Hours fantasy going where I chewed off my arm, got free, tracked down BDSM Spy Lady and _beat her over the head with it_. I think the blood’s not flowing to my brain or something. (Isn’t that how I got into this whole mess?)

I press a button with my toe again, watching the flare of blue light. Speed dial one, two, or three. Cap, pizza delivery, or Katie. That’s…not a great range of choices. That’s almost _no_ choice.

No. Screw that. There’s no almost there. There’s only one person I trust to see me like this.

I just…really wish my dick wasn’t so on display. Shit, is she even eighteen? If she can’t legally see DiCaprio fuck some actress, I’m not letting her see my _balls_.

**

Cap, on the other hand, would probably die again on the spot. And I _like_ Uncle Johnny’s. Best Hawaiian pie in New York, no lie. 

**

_Fuck._

**

She picks up on the second ring. “Clint.” Short. Clipped. Just my luck: she _doesn’t_ sound happy to hear from me. 

“Heeey, Katie.” I’m hedging. Stalling. Wouldn’t you? “So you’re eighteen, right?”

A sigh. “I’m reserving the right to hang up on you.”

“Fair enough. Do you think—” I can hear the clink of silverware and the faint sound of music. Not the usual crap she listens to when she’s doing her homework or exercising, though—classical stuff. Stuffy rich white people stuff. “What are you doing?”

“I’m on a date.”

Huh. “Oh, yeah? Uh— Nice guy?”

“Nice enough.”

“Good-looking?”

“He put in some effort.”

I try twisting again, ropes pulling tight around my thighs, my chest, digging into my…you get the idea. “Um, take you anywhere nice?”

“{ _Some French Name_ }.”

“Wow, so, French. That sounds…pretty fancy. He treating you good?”

Kate sighs, but I can hear the laugh in that short burst of air. “Clint, if you’re bored and just looking to chat, I’m pretty sure Jarvis would _love_ to hear—”

“So I’ve sorta been tied up and left to rot by a Russian dominatrix.”

Silence.

“Hello?”

Silence. _Shit_.

“Right. So, beep twice if you can hear me.”

“Shut up, I’m processing. That’s…” She goes quiet again, so quiet I can barely hear her breathing. I’ve got to squirm a little against the weird flash of guilt, then defiance, then guilt _over_ the defiance. Jesus, if I’d have known getting a nubile young partner was going to make me feel like such a sleazeball shit all the time, I’d probably… Nah, I’d have done the same thing. She’s got a way of making me feel like I’m growing the sense God never gave me, but she’s also just so…her. “Right,” she says. “I thought Natasha and Bucky were—”

“Not Natasha. So very not Natasha.”

“Okay, then.” Another silence, less awkward this time, then, “Hold on, I have to ditch my date.”

“Aw, and after he took you to { _Badly Pronounced French_ } and everything.”

“{ _Correctly Pronounced French_ }. And he was boring anyway. Talked too much about his Econ classes.”

“Future Wall Street type?”

“I think my father would have approved of him.”

“Yeouch.”

 _Muffled muffled. Muffled_. Clink of keys. “Okay. So. Russian dominatrix, huh?”

“It’s a really complicated story.”

“I’m listening.”

“Diagrams, Katie. Diagrams would be— You swear you’re over eighteen?”

“You know, if you’re tied up, I’m pretty sure you won’t be able to keep me from shooting you.” I hear the slam of the door, the purr of an engine. “Am I walking into a trap?”

I tip my head back to stare at the ceiling. “I dunno,” I have to admit. “She didn’t exactly give me much to go on. I’ve settled on this all being some kind of elaborate gag or a Ghosts of Christmas Past Girlfriends You Wronged kind of thing. She’s like Marley, with the chains?”

Silence. A silence I don’t need any help interpreting.

“Hey, I read! Also, anything starring Patrick Stewart has my ass in a chair.”

“Mmhmm. So, am I going to have to fight my way through your exes Scott Pilgrim style?”

“…that’s a young person reference, right?”

She snorts. I hear the blare of a horn. “No. It’s a Billy-and-Teddy-are-contagiously-geeky reference. Hold on.” Another blare, this one longer, followed by two short bursts. That’s my Katie: relentlessly efficient even when inciting road rage.

And oh, wait, hey. _Hey_.

“Hey, wait, are you talking and driving? Tell me you’re not talking and driving.”

“I’m not talking and driving, Clint.”

“Liar. I can hear the—”

She smoothly cuts me off. “So based on your phone’s tracker, I can make it to you in forty-five if I don’t break the law. Do you need me to break the law, Clint?”

“Weeeeell,” I hedge. “Not exactly. I mean, I may be missing important limbs when you get here, but…”

“How important are we talking?”

“My future children are in grave peril?”

Silence, then: “Right. I’ll see you in twenty.”

She makes it in fifteen. Did I mention I love this girl?

**

I can hear her checking the apartments above, below, and flanking the one I’ve been stashed in. She’s good—better than some of the for-reals Avengers I’ve worked with, if I’m going to be all honest about it. She’s better than _me_ by a long shot, and that’s part of why I’ve coupled our trains together. She’s got the level head and clear thinking I sometimes ( _sometimes? Ha_ ) lack. _I’ve_ got the pure instinct she’s still learning to trust in herself. Yin and yang. That’s the way partners are supposed to be, yeah?

(Not sidekicks. She’s not a fucking _sidekick_ , and I’ll deflate the balls of anyone who tries to say differently.)

When she finally kicks open the door, bow in hand, black hair flying behind her like a banner, I’m about ready to cheer. She’s still in her date clothes, black dress more classy than slinky (God, he must have _really_ been boring), black heels sensible. She’s dressed it up with pieces of her costume, though, always kept near at hand, and that makes my heart give a weird little lurch.

Just like the way she lowers her bow and studies me over the rim of her glasses makes my stomach sink.

I let her have her moment, figuring, hey, why not? But when one moment stretches into two, into _three_ , and she’s still studying me with a slow smile that screams trouble—klaxons blaring, lights flashing, probably-eighteen-but-still-creepy-don’t-go-there-Clint _trouble_ —I clear my throat. “Uh, Katie? My eyes are up here.”

“I know where your eyes are.” She doesn’t move hers. God, she’s ballsy. Dust redistributes as she walks across the floorboards to me, heels clicking. Weirdly, I get a sort of double vision then—Katie walking toward me in her classy black dress, bow in hand, come to save me. The Russian woman walking _away_ from me with her swaying hips and tumble of red hair, practically engineered to catch my interest, intent on…

I’m still not clear what the point of all this was. But it sure feels like a wakeup call. And I can’t quite shake the feeling that there’s a lesson here I should be packing up and taking away.

Katie sets aside her bow and tugs a small black bag from her shoulders. The knife glints dully as she crouches, too close to way too much naked me for comfort, but she’s not making a thing out of it. She took her moment(s) and now it’s back to business. Now it’s time to set me free.

I tip my head to watch her, watch the cleanly cut ends of rope coiling away. There are dents and divots along my skin, criss-crossing. Angry red marks. And I think, hey, how many times is this amazing girl going to save my ass before I find a way to reciprocate?

“Katie.” I catch her wrist as she begins to rise, knife already folded in her hand. It hurts to move, but I’m used to pain. I’ve been through pretty much anything the world can throw at me, and half the time—more than half—I’ve done it to myself. Not like _that_. Just. With all the recklessness and self-destructive cocksure fire a Carney kid can muster.

The first man who took me in after my parents died turned on me. The first woman I loved shot me. My brother wants me dead. I’ve got more broken hearts around my feet than any one person’s got a right to, and in some of my more self-reflective moments (read: drunken), I figure that one of the first of them is mine.

But Katie…Katie’s something different. And God help me, I don’t want to break _her_.

“Clint.”

I don’t actually know what to say. I don’t know how to warn her away. I don’t even know if those long looks or careful touches _mean_ anything. Jesus, I’m, what, mumble-mumble years old and I’ve fucked my way through more people than I care to admit, I’ve fucked _up_ more people than I care to admit. It’s too late for me, but she’s bright and she’s factory-new and she’s so fucking _smart_ and she’s got to know, she’s got to, that I love her just as much as my little shattered heart can allow and I’d say _yes_ if she ever reached out with real intent, and I’d hate myself more and more and more if I broke this too and.

And.

 _Shit_.

“So, a Russian dominatrix, huh?” she breaks the awkward silence, arching her brows. “Whose ass do we have to kick this time?”

See? _See_? She’s just so, so… _Katie_. And I know exactly what I’ve got to say. I’ve got to tell her to watch out. If she’s not careful, I’m going to be that one terrible accident in her life. I’m going to fuck it all up. I’m not _worth_ it. 

But I don’t say any of that. Instead I straighten, creaky as an old man, riddled with rope-burn, and say,

“Right. I hope to God you brought me some pants.”


End file.
